In The Labudović Reels, filmmaker Mila Turajlić unearths a lost chapter of inspirational resistance, told through the eyes of Stevan Labudović—the Yugoslav cinematographer whose camera became a weapon in anti-colonial struggles. Based on Turajlić’s meticulous archival research at Filmske Novosti, this two-part documentary offers more than a biography; it is a meditation on the ideological force of cinema, the geopolitical reach of socialist Yugoslavia, and the enduring impact of Third World solidarity.
The first part, Ciné-Guerrillas, opens in the halls of Algeria’s National Museum of El Moudjahid, where Labudović’s camera—once an instrument of wartime documentation—is now an artifact of revolution. A group of schoolchildren gathers around as their teacher recounts his role in capturing Algeria’s war for independence (1959–61). Sent by Yugoslavia, Labudović not only documented the struggle against French colonial rule but actively participated in it, forging a visual depiction of resistance that aligned with Josif Broz Tito’s broader support for anti-imperialist movements.
Turajlić’s storytelling extends beyond Labudović’s personal recollections, weaving together rare archival footage and interviews to reconstruct Yugoslavia’s cinematic diplomacy. At the height of the Cold War, Tito’s Yugoslavia positioned itself as an ally to liberation movements worldwide, supplying not only political support but also cultural—film reels, cameras, and technical expertise. Ciné-Guerrillas shows this “cine-kinship” by emphasizing the impact of cinematic tools in fostering transnational resistance movements and uprisings. A particularly striking example is Djazaïrouna (Our Algeria), a 1960 short film assembled from Labudović’s footage and screened at the fifteenth UN General Assembly—a strategic act of visual advocacy that brought Algeria’s struggle to an international audience.
The second instalment, Non-Aligned, shifts focus to Belgrade’s role as the cradle of the Non-Aligned Movement. Turajlić reconstructs the 1961 Belgrade Summit through Labudović’s reels, offering rare glimpses of leaders like Gamal Abdel Nasser, Kwame Nkrumah, Sukarno, and Jawaharlal Nehru. At a time when the world was rigidly divided between East and West, these figures championed an alternative vision—one where newly independent nations could claim agency on the world stage without following Moscow’s way of socialism.
Yet, Turajlić does not just glorify her supranational history; she also perfectly interrogates it. Through a sharp juxtaposition, she contrasts the ambitions of the Non-Aligned Movement with the current state of global diplomacy, where the United Nations—once a battleground for decolonial voices—is now more souvenir shop than site of radical discourse. This contrast invites a reflection on what remains of Yugoslavia’s utopian aspirations. Is the legacy of the Non-Aligned Movement still relevant, or has it faded into nostalgia, especially among Belgraders?
Throughout The Labudović Reels, Turajlić grapples with the contradictions of socialist Yugoslavia—at once an engine of global solidarity and an entity that no longer exists. For those who once belonged to this vanished nation, its pivotal incidents and icons maintain to resonate, preserved in memory. By reviving Labudović’s footage, Turajlić not only restores a forgotten chapter of history but also reclaims cinema as an act of resistance. In doing so, she offers more than a documentary—she delivers an argument for why the past still matters and resonates in certain zones.
Cemre Aydoğan
Yeditepe University, Türkiye